


Tiny Cities

by Iknowthebattle



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Queer Character, Queer Themes, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 08:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13854387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iknowthebattle/pseuds/Iknowthebattle
Summary: I started to write a fic of Timmy and Saoirse at a party with Frank Ocean (a suggestion from the lovely elio-bonerman) and ended up with Timmy wearing Saoirse's lingerie. Oops.I promise somewhere in these snapshots Greta and Armie will make an appearance.





	Tiny Cities

Timmy knew he looked good in white jeans. The only problem was that it was hard to keep them white while walking or riding the subway around New York.

But tonight he wanted to wear them. They matched Saoirse’s all white dress. She wore black heels and he wore a black jacket over a plain black t-shirt, gold necklace, gold bracelet. They looked like two sides of a magazine spread, styled and costumed by someone else but it was all them.

His apartment smelled like a combination of his cologne and Saoirse’s shampoo and conditioner. The scent was sharp and soft all in the same breath.

“Timmy! What time is the thing?” Saoirse’s voice came from his bathroom where she was putting the finishing touches on her make up.

Timmy sauntered over, confident in his clothes and leaned into the tiny bathroom, hands on each side of the door.

“Eight? Nine, maybe?”

Saoirse looked at him in the mirror. “You don’t know?”

Timmy shrugged, still gripping the sides of the door by his fingers until the blood rushed to the tip. “I don’t think it matters what time we get there.”

Saoirse was still looking at him. “Just that we show up?”

Timmy nodded.

Saoirse laughed, sliding an earring through her left lobe.

“You look nervous.” She turned to him now, the back of her dress and tight hair bun in the mirror. Timmy stared at the reflection of her backless dress.

He shook his head, curls everywhere. Saoirse reached out to tug on the curls nearest his cheeks with both hands.

“It’s just a party.”  She paused, hands on each side of his face now, holding his cheek bones with gentle cupped hands.

He shifted, shy and grateful under her gaze.

“Just.” A kiss on his right cheek. “A.” A kiss on his left cheek. “Party.”

Now he was smiling, cautious, but full.

Saoirse leaned in once more and kissed him on the lips, soft and slow. Timmy’s eyes fluttered closed instead of open. They had kissed before, in all states, present and altered.

Last night had been the latter; they had stumbled back to Timmy’s place drunk out of their minds, collapsing on his bed, a tangle of arms and legs, Saoirse’s ripped black tights wrapped around his skin tight jeans. They sloppily unlaced and kicked off combat boots and converse, four shoes bouncing and landing on the hardwood floor not far from the mattress.

Saoirse pulled Timmy towards her, pulling him over using her leg around his, her arm around his waist. They looked like two limp rag dolls, long abandoned under a childhood bed but recently brought out for memory and nostalgia.

“Do you like kissing me because I look like a girl?” Timmy slurred one hand on Saoirse’s hip, running it up and down along the bone, her shirt pulled up a little each time.

Saoirse started to laugh, but no sound came out, just an open, round shape. She slowly lay back on their shared pillow and stared at the ceiling. She licked her lips, her mouth dry and sticky from whiskey.

“Hey, I didn’t mean…” Timmy leaned over, rubbing a slow circle around her stomach, but she shook her head, turned to look at him again.

“Who said that was a bad thing?”

Timmy’s face went from concerned to relief to pleasure running patterns up and down his features.

She kissed him then, and Timmy let his head fall back, open and loose under her mouth. They were never using one another in the place of the body they would rather be holding. If they were doing this, whatever it was, it was what they wanted with who they wanted to be with.

The sounds of their kissing were the only sounds in the quiet apartment, much better now than the space Timmy had shared before in the East Village. Not a bachelor’s pad, just sterile and new enough to look expensive but cluttered and scattered enough to show a young man lived here.  

He took a particular thrill in seeing Saoirse’s jewelry on his bathroom counter or Armie’s grey corduroy jacket in his hall closet.

Of course he wore it.

At first around the house, at first wearing nothing else, and then as an article of clothing just to go to the store, then to a movie, and then out with friends where someone asked him where he got it and he spun on one heel and bit the inside of his jaw, the coat flying out around him.

_“Can’t tell.”_

He let Saoirse wear it one night and the look (it was even bigger on her, almost a blanket) and the knowledge that it was Armie’s made him feel high.

They had made out, removing one another’s shirt and sweater, and Saoirse stopped, pulled back and looked at Timmy’s bare chest and necklace. She looped her finger through the thin sleek silver and tugged on it.

“Put on my bra.”

Timothee cough-laughed. “Like, _wear_ your bra?”

“Yes.” Saoirse’s voice and face was serious.

“But…you’re wearing it.” Timmy knew his delay was weak, his eyes on Saoirse’s black lace bra with one strap hanging off her shoulder.

Saoirse removed her bra without ceremony and Timothee stared at her chest the entire time, unabashedly, hand still on her waist.

She sat up, twirling the bra around her finger in the air now.

“Up, up.”

Timmy obeyed, sat up on the bed.

“Arms out.”

His arms went out in front of him. Saoirse pulled the bra up his arms. She kissed the top of his shoulder as he leaned forward so she could snap the back shut.

She sat back on the bed, hands behind her, to admire her work.

“Holy shit,” Saoirse breathed. “This…actually fucking suits you.”

Timmy sat shriveled up, awkwardly tilting to one side, eyes on the ceiling, arms wanting to cross over his chest. He liked Saoirse’s eyes on him. He liked being watched, being admired this way. It wasn’t the same way Armie looked at him, not pulsing and intense, hungry. It was a happy, self-assured form of admiration.

She loved him. Timmy knew he was loved.

Saoirse reached over and touched the black lace against his skin, putting her hand between the cups to touch the bone that was visible there. Timmy’s heart was racing.

“Do you hate it?”

Timmy thought about it, and shook his head.

“I like how it feels on my skin.”

He pulled one of the loose straps up on his shoulder again.

Saoirse nodded. She knew he liked having his nails painted in secret (black or blue only), and eyeliner was fine almost always. Her personal favorite look was rolled up jeans, an old plaid shirt, combat boots and black fingernail polish. He had only worn it once and mostly for her.

“You’re so _butch_!” She had proclaimed that day, clearly pleased.

And now, “Next time you’re getting put in fish nets.”

Timmy laughed. “Whatever you say.”

Saoirse was kissing him again, one hand on her bra, one hand in his hair, pulling at the nape of his neck.

Timothee put a hand down her skirt, under her tights, under her thong. She was soaking wet.

“Fuck,” Timothee muttered. He liked play acting like this, half boy, half girl. He was happy to be whatever she wanted him to be.

Saoirse opened her legs; let him play there, long fingers against her, dipping into her.

Saoirse felt him, hard and bending, snaking down to the left in his jeans, the outline visible.

“You don’t have to,” Timmy breathed. He knew she liked it better when he pleased her.

“I can just be this for you, just…your…girl…” He wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to say.

Saoirse nodded her hand still on his cock. She dug her nails in and Timmy winced. She pulled away quickly, but he grabbed her hand, not letting go.  

“No. No, I like it.”

“You like what?”

“I like the pain. Do it again.”

She grabbed him again and he had put his fingers deeper in her. Staring at one another without kissing, almost a study in what turned the other person on, both admiring, neither one shy anymore because there was not anything to worry about, nothing to fear.

They had woken up the next morning, Timothee half in her bra, holding hands, too young to be terribly hungover, ready for food.

And now they were getting ready to go to a party where Frank Ocean would be, and maybe other people but no one else really mattered except that and each other.

Saoirse gave Timmy the once over at the door.

“You look good, little pony.”

Timothee nuzzled her under the chin, right at the center of her throat.

“Fuuuuuuuuuck,” He moaned, nervous, excited, trying to sit on and suffocate uncontrollable joy.

The party was at the Mercer Hotel in New York, Saoirse and Timmy went in through the side door, no photos taken, and not a lot of people inside.

Perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr; Iknowthebattle xx


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